


Vivant

by lastdream



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Denial, I am so sorry, M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3715450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastdream/pseuds/lastdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stands, collects his sketchbook, and turns to go.</p><p>“So long, Enjolras,” he says as he reaches the door. Enjolras sighs.</p><p>“You’re going to have to say it eventually,” he tells Grantaire. Grantaire swallows hard, blinks twice, and leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vivant

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written not for the kink meme and it's depressing as hell and I'M SORRY.
> 
> I think it pretty much speaks for itself but some things are explained at the end anyway.

“Hey, Enjolras,” says Grantaire. It seems like prodigious effort, but Enjolras finally opens his eyes to look at him. He’s sitting at the side of the bed, wearing yesterday’s clothes and a nervous smile. In front of him, propped against the bed, is a large rectangular object— probably a canvas, Enjolras thinks.

“What’ve you been up to?” Enjolras asks with a pointed look at the object.

“I— well, that’s for after lunch. Breakfast. Meal-type food that happens at this time of day. Anyway! I brought you rice. Just plain, as gentle as I can make it. And after that… well, you'll find out after you eat your rice.” If Grantaire had loved making Enjolras wait for surprises before, it’s nothing to how much he enjoys it now. It’s a little, hopeful gesture of belief in the future that he persists in, no matter how much time passes, and how wrong everyone tells him he is.

It makes Enjolras ache a little more, so he distracts himself by finding the button that will maneuver him into a sitting position. Picking up the fork and using it is more difficult, though, and his hand shakes while he does it. Grantaire studiously eats his own food and makes light conversation, as though ignoring the problem will make it go away.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, after the third time he drops the fork. “Help, please.”

Grantaire blinks hard, just once, and picks up the fork. Over and over again he brings it to Enjolras’ mouth. His patience seems infinite.

It isn’t long before Enjolras can eat no more, and Grantaire puts the food away. It’s less than half gone, but Grantaire seems determined to ignore this as well.

“What were you going to show me?” Enjolras asks him, looking back down at the object. From this angle he can see that it is definitely a canvas, but it’s impossible to tell what’s on it.

“No, no, no, that’s for later,” sing-songs Grantaire, “First things first.” He pulls out something small, round…

“Applesauce?”

“Cinnamon applesauce,” Grantaire corrects with a smirk. It’s the sweetest thing Enjolras can still handle; a treat, and he knows it. Enjolras doesn’t have an appetite anymore, but he appreciates the gesture.

“Maybe in a few hours,” he says, and he knows it’s a concession to Grantaire’s fruitless hope, but the way Grantaire’s eyes light up with restrained gladness is almost worth it.

“Alright, close your eyes,” Grantaire instructs. Before, he could not stand for Enjolras to close his eyes for even a moment, greedily basking in their gaze. Now, it’s like he needs to prove he isn’t afraid of those closed eyes or what they could mean. Enjolras brings a hand up to cover his eyes instead. “Suit yourself,” says Grantaire, as though it doesn’t matter to him.

He lifts the canvas, moves it to where Enjolras can properly take it in, and rests it on the rails of the bed, just over Enjolras’ legs.

“Now you can look,” he says.

It’s a painting of their friends, gathered together in the Musain. Enjolras himself is the centerpiece, radiant and fierce and slightly older than he is in life. Beside him is a slightly older Grantaire, who looks up at him tenderly. They are holding hands, and the colors are autumnal.

Outside Enjolras’ window, it is springtime. He breathes deeply and tries not to cry as he looks up at Grantaire.

“It’s beautiful,” he tells him, because it is. “Is this what you’ve been working on all month?”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, almost shyly. He already knows how Enjolras feels about the way he’s been putting his career— his life— on hold. In a month, he could have done three or four times as much work, easily; it’s not a large canvas. In another month, he’ll need the money when the rent comes due on an apartment that’s really too large for just one artist. “I’m going to put it on the wall— you know that blank part that’s not quite living room and not quite kitchen? I’ve always thought we needed something there. You can tell me how it looks when you get home.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says gently. He knows why Grantaire is lying to himself, but it seems like going too far, to talk about a return to the apartment. Grantaire’s lip trembles for a moment and he bites it to make it stop.

“Combeferre will be here soon,” he presses on. “He gets off work early today. The others should be here in the evening, only Feuilly doesn’t get off until after visiting hours, and Bahorel’s still out of town. You’ll see him next week.”

Enjolras has neither the strength nor the heart to contradict him.

Their friends do arrive exactly on time. Grantaire has everyone’s schedule memorized at this point, and he makes sure that as many of them as possible come in every day. “If we don’t keep you updated on everyone as you go along, it’ll take you ages to get caught up,” he says.

Once everyone has arrived, Combeferre pulls out a book and begins to read to them all as if they were schoolchildren— though Gavroche, sitting on Eponine’s lap, actually is a schoolchild— and they all listen with rapt attention. After a few chapters Combeferre puts the book away, to general disappointment, and then they all burst into conversation. Except for the steady beeping in the background, they can almost pretend it’s just a normal meeting.

Eventually they leave, and they take their warm cheer with them. Only Grantaire remains, with his too-painful hopes and his loaded conversation.

“Farewell,” he says when he finally leaves.

—— 

Combeferre finishes the book two days later, and the whole group draws a blank when Combeferre wonders whether he ought to get the sequel out. It took them two weeks, perhaps, for this last one; how long will the next take? This is the question they ask.

The question they very carefully do not ask: will Enjolras be able to finish it with us?

It’s Grantaire who settles the question, who declares that the sequel is every bit as good as the original, and they really have no choice but to continue, with the way the first one ended. They all look at him without speaking, and finally Combeferre turns to the first page of the second book.

That day, Grantaire departs with a wave and a throaty “Au revoir!”

—— 

Enjolras opens his eyes slowly, and finds Grantaire sitting in the chair beside his bed. His chin is on his hand and his eyelids are heavy, as though he had been there for a long time. It’s a Tuesday, Grantaire’s day alone with Enjolras, and the light at the window looks like afternoon light.

“Hi,” he croaks through a dry throat. 

“Water?” asks Grantaire, and he fetches it without waiting for an answer. What Enjolras really wants is his morphine drip, but he accepts the drink anyway. It smoothes the roughness in his throat, at least, and makes it so he can speak without causing more pain.

“How long have you been here?” he asks.

“Oh, not long,” Grantaire replies dismissively. Enjolras knows what this means; he arrived first thing in the morning and was unable to wake him. “Are you hungry?”

Enjolras shakes his head. The cannula in the back of his hand is enough for him, now.

“Oh, well, maybe later,” says Grantaire. His tone is too serious for his words. “Here, I did some sketching while you were asleep.” For the next hour or so they flip through Grantaire’s sketchbook together, Grantaire disparaging and Enjolras praising every page. The light begins to fail, or perhaps Enjolras’ sight does. The world is going dark at the edges, and he wishes fervently that he had asked for the morphine.

“Grantaire, come here,” says Enjolras. Grantaire draws very near, and his soft eyes meet Enjolras’ exactly. Enjolras has to take a deep breath. “I want you to say it,” he manages at last.

Grantaire is silent for a long, long time, with his lip held tight between his teeth. “I love you,” he says obstinately, and then he kisses Enjolras’ forehead gently. Then he draws back. “I’ve got to go now.”

He stands, collects his sketchbook, and turns to go.

“So long, Enjolras,” he says as he reaches the door. Enjolras sighs.

“You’re going to have to say it eventually,” he tells Grantaire. Grantaire swallows hard, blinks twice, and leaves.

—— 

Another day, beyond the point when Enjolras stopped being able to keep track of them, his friends slowly trickle out of the room. As usual, Grantaire remains, the first in and the last out. They talk idly for a minute or an hour; time is running like ink on wet paper.

Finally, Grantaire stands. He might have decided it was time to leave, or visiting hours might be over, it’s impossible for Enjolras to tell anymore. His body is screaming for him to push the button on his morphine again, but he doesn’t. He knows, somehow, that there’s little it can do for him anymore. The soft beeping counts out a beat like a countdown, and now he knows when zero comes.

As Grantaire starts to collect his things, Enjolras can almost see him reaching for a phrase, a word, anything but the one he won’t say. 

“Stop,” Enjolras says. “Come here. Please, Grantaire.” Grantaire sets his things down, and does. “Please say it.”

“No,” says Grantaire, and it’s the first time he’s acknowledged his own aversion.

“Please, Grantaire,” Enjolras repeats. “I need to hear you say it. I need to— I need to know that you can. Please.” Grantaire shakes his head, and he’s biting his lip hard, but it’s trembling nonetheless. Enjolras can hear the beat slowing down, and paradoxically he becomes more urgent, though he can only whisper. “Grantaire, please.”

“I can’t, I can’t, Enjolras—!” For the first time, Grantaire is really, truly crying, and he’s holding onto Enjolras without heeding his tears. He has noticed the slow, slow tempo.

“I love you,” Enjolras murmurs, and it takes so much effort to get the words out. He has only the strength left to say one more, and he says, “Please.”

“Enjolras!” And there are Grantaire’s lips on his, a desperate touch, and there are Grantaire’s tears on his face, and the world is going darker every second. And Enjolras is afraid, so afraid, that Grantaire will never say it, will never be able to say it, until finally Grantaire sobs into his ear, “Goodbye.”

The beating stops altogether.

**Author's Note:**

> No, I did not have a particular terminal illness in mind when I wrote this. Ergo, I may be completely wrong, but the particulars are not the point.
> 
> Enjolras wants Grantaire to say goodbye because he's afraid that Grantaire won't be able to let go of him. He wants him to be able to live, even after Enjolras is gone.


End file.
